


Vis o sang

by aeber



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: (if nobody is writing a long fic to satisfy my thirst i WILL), Angst, Fantasy, Fluff, Half dragon au, Horns, M/M, Manakete au?, Slow Burn, Wings, he has a tail., hello everybody i'm back with some (squints) grima Chrobin, i think, knowing me probably not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22034026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeber/pseuds/aeber
Summary: The night is hot, dismally so, and in crashes Robin with a breath of winter chill. The glint of his talons flashes silver in the moonlight.The night may be hot, but not hotter than his fangs on Chrom's neck.Manakete(?) Robin AU. The plot grew legs and ran away...i dare not promise updates but I'll try my best!
Relationships: Chrom & My Unit | Reflet | Robin, Chrom/Gimurei | Grima, Chrom/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Comments: 75
Kudos: 131





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> huff. long time no fic. I've had the start of this fic thought up some time ago but now I've finally fleshed out half a plot! I got very liberal with it and it might be slightly ooc... well grima doesn't really have any characterization so it's ok shh
> 
> I took a business trip (haha) into the world of danmei novels and came back enlightened... that was actually what inspired me to make something out of the one(1) scene,, the novel that kicked me in the ribs to write is called "我五行缺你" (My five elements lack you) and (because it's not fully translated yet) if any of you are able to fluently read chinese I 300% recommend you to read it! (if you have any recommendations or yell at me Uhuhu My Dms Are Open)
> 
> edit: my five elements lack you IS fully translated! i’m just blind  
> edit2: right no it’s a machine translation nvm
> 
> Anyways, pls take my life blood

It’s evening. The sun, nearly set, leaves the land with an unyielding stretch of shadow. The stratum of clouds thin with a silver glow.

The chill of night frosts over his skin and Robin gasps, chest scorching. The ground beneath him feels more like gravel than soft soil; his limbs ache with the sour aftertaste of adrenaline. His parched throat threatens to collapse as he swallows a mouthful of dry spit.

All is still save for the occasional birdcall over the canopy of the forest. He limps onwards, pace unsteady and a distasteful metallic tang in his mouth, until the darkness cast over his vision is broken only by faint moonlight. A sheen of sweat forms over his clammy hands and he wills himself forward, a step at a time.

A fresh breeze sifts over the woods. He lifts his head, too tired to be startled, and notices the dense landscape of trees abruptly ending into the tapered mouth of a cliff. Beyond, specks of firelight dot the vague outline of a castle.

He tastes the air with a flit of his tongue. Then, lowering himself to the ground, he grips the edge of the cliff with roughened talons, and jumps.

A gale surges past him in a gust of displaced air. Clawed wings rupture from his back and he glides soundlessly over the sleeping city, feathers shivering as he nimbly rides a draft over the castle walls.

As he does so, Chrom awakes from his shallow slumber, grimacing at the sticky sensation of summer heat clinging to the back of his beck. Sitting up in mild annoyance, he wipes himself off with his palm and makes his way to the balcony.

The telltale click of nail on ceramic goes unheard as he pushes the window open. The curtains billow inwards in the wind and he steps out, barefoot. If he listened, he could have perhaps heard the quiet scraping of scales off the rim of his roof.

He leans on the railing, his shoulders overhanging the rest of the capital. The skies are dark as if doused with ink, stars littering the leaden expanse hidden by the swathe of clouds tumbling with the wind.

A little closer. A little more. The air waits with baited breath around them. A sudden movement— Chrom barely has the time to react as a talon slams into his chest, crashing him to the ground and knocking the wind out of his lungs. He thrashes in frantic response before instinctively twisting away, throwing off his assailant with his heart roaring in his ears.

Robin wastes no time in recovery, a swift sweep of his tail bringing Chrom to his knees as he lunges at him, fangs bared. Sucking in a sharp breath, Chrom dodges, skidding deftly to the side as Robin tries at him again. A thin gash lays between them where his tail had lashed into the floor.

His agility leaves Chrom with no time for thought. He plunges at him, wings flaring and bathed in silver starlight, right as Chrom narrowly evades a brutal slash across his neck. _He’s cornered me_ , he realises too late, veering from a powerful blow to the head and sinking into the wall as Robin pins him down with inhuman strength.

Chrom strains against his bounds to no avail. It’s at that moment he gets his first decent look at him. His eyes are blood red, hair white as snow, black, mottled feathers spread beneath his jawbone and into two sleek black wings bristling in hostility. He’s stunned for a second and the illusion breaks as Robin closes the distance without delay, fangs sharp in the stinted light.

He can feel the hot lick of Robin’s tongue on his neck, the acute pressure digging into his veins. Just as he breaks skin and a smattering of blood drenches his mouth, his grip loosens and Chrom closes his fingers around familiar metal. Falchion slides out of its sheathe with a pleasant shriek.

Robin immediately lurches back, stung. He hisses as at the iron and staggers back, edging away and rumbling dangerously between his teeth. Chrom approaches him, emboldened. Falchion glitters brightly his hand and he raises his arm, the cold touch of the blade kissing Robin’s chin.

Neither of them move. They stay like this for a fleeting stutter in time, a small trickle of red dribbling down Chrom’s neck and Robin licking the last smear of blood off the corner of his lip. A soft gale washes into the room.

Warily, he lowers his blade, but not enough so that Robin could make any sudden advances. He’s young, Chrom thinks. There’s barely any meat beneath the torn robes he’s wearing, save the staunch ripple of muscle down the lower half of his body. Two horns wreath his head above his defiant stare.

“Who are you? What are you?”

He blinks in response.

“...Do you have a name?”

To this, he purses his lips in contemplation. After what seemed to Chrom like an eternity, he opens his mouth with sluggish reluctance.

“…Robin.”

“Why did you come here?”

No reply. He does, however, flit his gaze to the wound on Chrom’s neck. Chrom winces as he sees Robin’s larynx bob. Twice.

Chrom pauses. “If I put this down, will you promise not to attack me?”

No, Robin wants to say, reconsiders at the scratch of Falchion on the floor, and silently nods.

Chrom visibly relaxes. He loosens his hold on Falchion and carefully lays it on the ground next to him, all while keeping his gaze on Robin.

“I suppose you’ll be staying for the night, then.”

He gives him a look, as if saying _you can’t keep me here._

As if on cue, several knocks echo from the door to Chrom’s room. Chrom grins smugly and turns to the noise.

“Milord, are you okay?”

“Yes, Frederick, I’m fine. What is it?”

“An intruder was spotted on the castle roof. We’ve already dispatched more guards, but nothing has been found yet.” He could almost imagine him frowning. “I heard a commotion from your room. What happened?”

“Nothing much. You could say I got caught up in swordplay.”

Robin raises a brow questioningly.

“…Sleep well, milord.”

Footsteps fade away into the corridor.

He stares at Chrom, tail swishing behind his back. Tensing as Chrom drops his sword onto the floor, he bristles defensively and and retreats to the far end of the room.

“Well then, make yourself at home.”

Robin doesn't bother to disguise his incredulity as Chrom pads to his bed and fluffs out the blankets. He watches him slide into the blankets and within minutes, Chrom’s already snoring.

He sits solemnly for the next few minutes and debates whether to try eating him again.

Is he an idiot? Must be. There’s no way anyone could have slept after that. But getting up and attacking him again leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth, so he licks at one of his wounds and curls up gingerly on the carpets.

The woollen bristles are surprisingly comfortable. He’d decided to keep a close eye on his supposed late midnight snack. Though the aching in his body is returning in full might, his last burst of energy leaving him completely drained…

Robin snaps awake in the heat of afternoon.

He has no idea where he is. The events of yesterday come together vaguely in his head and he bolts upright in alarm, only to realise that there’s nobody around. The room is doused in sunlight. It’s warm and fills him with a fuzzy haze.

The horror of falling asleep is creeping up on him. He cautiously sweeps the room for any hidden entities, prickling at the slightest noise outside. The space is clean enough, several claw marks streaking across the wallpaper and floorboards as an indication of the night before. Nothing that can’t be passed off as a night of impulse training… what kind of soldier was he anyways? One that can get away with breaking his furniture at night?

He eyes the rich brocade on the curtains. Not soldier. Lord. Prince.

He paces for a while, irritated. Nearing the door, he teases open a slight gap to catch a glimpse of a heavily armoured guard. He scowls and shuts it. The windows, maybe.

He peeks out from the balcony. Right. The castle watch.

Sighing in defeat, he resorts to rifling through the papers and books on the shelves. He’s not very familiar with the language and struggles through it at snail’s pace, though he does learn where he is and whose room he’s temporarily imprisoned in. Prince Chrom, next in line for the throne, is apparently a slob at keeping tabs on the important documents his sister sends him.

The bookcase holds a wealth of books which all seem untouched. Robin picks one up on random and reads. It’s a long and dreary compilation of the history of Ylisse. There’s little to do in his makeshift enclosure, so he settles in a chair— despairs in the fact that his tail doesn’t fit in— and concedes to the rug toasted cosily by sunlight.

The door handle clicks open. Startled, he slaps the book shut, finds that the sun has already set and the lanterns lit, and holds back the primary instinct to hiss.

Chrom emerges from the doorframe, sheepishly holding a platter of silverware. His hair is mussed from his daily activities, Falchion hanging from his hip. Robin glares at him from the floor.

“I brought food.”

He sets down the platter in front of Robin and upon seeing his defensive curl, settles down himself and uncovers the bowls he had pilfered from the kitchen. He’d gotten him a gratuitous amount of meat, as well as some fruit from the pantry. Robin sniffs at it derisively and swallows.

“It’s not poisonous. Go on.”

He stares expectantly at Chrom. Chrom sighs and stabs a slice of mutton with a fork, and as he takes his second bite Robin finally seizes the entire slab of meat by the bone, tearing it apart easily strip by strip. Chrom watches as the sauce drips loosely from Robin’s red lips, his teeth sinking deeply into the tough strands of muscle.

“There’s more if you want.”

The ends of the drumstick make a sickening crunch as Robin sucks on the marrow. His tongue swirls around the shaft of the bone, savouring the last bits of flavour and nibbling on the tendrils of meat still clinging onto the tendons. They make eye contact.

“…You can talk, you know. It’s not as if you can’t read.”

Robin consciously shifts on the book he’s hidden beneath his wing. Chrom resists the overpowering urge to smile.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. Didn’t take you for the literary type though.”

Robin bites back a retort on the tip of his tongue.

“Where do you come from, anyways?”

He ruminates, coiling his tail slowly. “…I don’t remember.”

Amnesia, Chrom thinks. What a convenient coincidence. “Then what do you remember? At least, before coming here?”

“Hunger. A smell. A very,” he makes a point by directing his gaze at Chrom’s neck, “very delicious smell.”

Chrom decides not to investigate further.

Plopping the last mutilated chunk of bone onto the plate, Robin returns into his former crouch and flicks his tail in disinterest. Chrom picks up the platter and places it outside his quarters. By the time he’d closed the door, Robin had already retreated into his own corner, back facing the rest of the room.

He’s not asleep yet. Chrom knows that and sighs, turning down the fire in the lanterns and putting his sword back on its rack. In the darkness, he hears Robin shuffle in unease, and if he were slightly more curious, he would have seen two gleaming eyes blinking in the shadows, flashing crimson and reflecting nothing.

-

The next day, Robin is reading as Chrom wakes up, reading as he leaves his room, and will be reading when he returns. Chrom would be surprised at how quickly Robin devours content at the end of the day, but he’s however not quite there yet.

Instead he takes his lessons in a daze, his mind void of the texts his tutors are distressing over and rather filled with dragons and legends. He thinks perhaps Robin is a manakete, something he’s heard of in trials concerning human and beast trafficking. By that logic though, wouldn’t Robin be at least several thousand years old? Wouldn’t that make him as old as Naga Herself? Or did different dragons age differently in human form?

He hears that Emmeryn is returning to Ylisse shortly. Another failed attempt at peace talks, he muses, and the castle seems to share the gloom. He takes a little more from the kitchen this round. For the first time in his life, he’s looking forward to nightfall.

There’s a pile of books stacked around Robin’s den. A lot of them have feathers stuck through them like bookmarks. As Chrom enters, Robin lifts his head from his book and places it aside.

“Evening."

Robin looks less manic than their first encounter. The lack of attempt on his life for example. He’s still not very verbose, though that can be remedied later. Chrom makes small talk as Robin wolfs down an entire chicken.

As Robin finishes up, he reaches to place a brutally chewed bone back onto the plate, and in the feeble luminance Chrom catches sight of the pale slant of his wrist.

Without thinking, he grasps Robin’s arm before Robin can reflexively jerk back. Robin flinches, Chrom’s eyes widen as Robin’s sleeve shirks back to gravity.

He tips Robin’s palm towards himself. There are wounds everywhere, but most noticeably in an ugly, almost-festering ring around his wrist. “Where did you get these bruises?”

Robin struggles weakly against his grip. “I don’t know.”

Shackle bruises. “On your other wrist too?”

He purses his lips and nods.

“We should get it cleaned up.”

“Where?”

“In the baths. It’s reserved for royalty this time of night, but my sisters aren’t here now.”

After a moment of hesitation, he follows Chrom out of his room and down a short descent through a hidden route. Immediately, as Chrom pushes open the gates, he’s hit with a face full of steam.

He removes his coat by the benches. As he does so, Chrom flinches at the sight of a bloodstain seeping across Robin’s thin shirt.

“There’s more?”

“It's nothing. I heal quickly.”

“Still,” Chrom’s thankful for the steam hiding the growing blush in his eartips. “Take off your shirt.”

Thank Naga he can’t see Robin’s expression right now. Or his movements as he strips, deft and succinct. When he’s close enough to see him, he walks over with an armful of supplies gestures at a stool.

“Sit. I’ll wash you off.”

And as Robin adjusts himself clumsily over the seat, Chrom realises that he has completely undershot his estimates. His wings, normally folded in, has a wingspan covering at nearly a third of available ground. There’s nothing resembling anything remotely human from the waist down.

Stepping to avoid being slapped by his tail, he begins carefully scrubbing the pus and grime off Robin’s wrists and ankles.

“Don’t squirm.”

“I’m not.” Robin cringes as Chrom dabs at a sore spot.

“Yes you are. Turn around.”

Robin stops in a moment of silence and awkwardly pivots on the stool. Meticulously, Chrom rinses the dirt from his back, up the slender curve of his waist, to the soft tuft of new feathers between his shoulder blades. Inevitably, as he threads his fingers through Robin’s hair, he’s met with a surprised shudder throughout his body.

“What are you doing?”

“Washing your hair.” He untangles his fingers. “Should I stop?”

“…No, no. Continue.”

It’s very fluffy. He runs his hand along the ridge of his horns, massaging his scalp and combing through the knots. He’s beginning to lose himself in the snowy softness when Robin shivers involuntarily at the cooling air.

Regrettably, he still has a job to do, so he tells Robin to soak himself off before coming out so he can dress his wounds.

Later, he bandages the deeper gashes with shaking hands. There’s a painful variety of wounds, most having already closed up but some still tender to touch. He brushes past a series of small cuts and rests his fingers on a series of burn marks. Magic, most likely. He wonders what kind of captor Robin had had to warrant injuries of this calibre.

He’ll launder Robin’s old clothes later. For now, Robin’s wearing one of his shirts. It’s too big for him, but that’s fine. At least it covers enough to stop Chrom’s gaze from wandering elsewhere.

He watches him curl up on the carpet, tucking in his tail and pawing at the floor. His wings are folded protectively over his body, keeping in warmth and shielding him from sight.

Chrom swallows the words stuck in his throat.

Is he comfortable? Did he eat enough? And those wounds on his body, did they hurt? How long had he suffered until now?

He thinks. There’s no reply to his thoughts, but only the faint whistle of the wind singing lowly in the summer night.

Robin’s chest rises and falls to every shallow breath he takes. He sleeps like the dead, still except for the occasional twitching in his wrist. A bird calls in the distance and his breathing hitches.

Roused, he shifts to focus on the bed. Chrom is asleep, snoring. A vague memory passes through him and he unconsciously braces himself against the cold.

Nothing comes. Residue heat rises from the floor, a remnant of the sunny afternoon.

It’s warm, it’s warm. But only when he’s there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra:
> 
> Robin: “One bite.”  
> Chrom: “N-no…”
> 
> sigh... robin's irresistible waistline....


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh sorry for the long lack of updates! Gosh it has been an entire month asdkjfhasdf i'd say i was busy but i was actually hooked onto another novel... anyhow now I have a really long holiday thanks to the lunar new year and the corona virus outbreak here... hope i don't die of pneumonia... (at least not before I finish this lol)
> 
> but on the bright side faster updates?!
> 
> !!! Big(?) edit to the last part of chapter 1 because ahaha writing pains. Read it again for maximum Slow Burn (but not really)? Or just for a refresher!
> 
> anyhow it's like 4 in the morning pls take my delirious writing

A week passes. And another.

The days are long and dreary, and while Chrom is dying to sit Robin down with a notepad and a trove of questions, most of the time he feels as if he’s going in circles. Whenever he asks, Robin’s answers are curt if not deflected with a simple irrefutable ‘I don’t remember’ or ‘I don’t know”.

The time they spend together spans the mornings and evenings, where Robin sits in comfortable silence and occasionally eyes Chrom in a way that sends shivers down his spine. He reads in earnest while Chrom kneels with Falchion on his lap, moving mechanically to polish the near-unused blade.

After that, he steals Robin’s dinner from the pantry. He talks about nothing and everything in particular, the only indication that Robin is listening being short prompts on details amid his tearing apart of the five-person meal of the day. It’s strange, Chrom thinks, that he’s never seen Robin give any sign of being full. He’d asked if Robin had wanted more.

“How much can you give me?” Robin had replied, an indecipherable mirth sparkling in his eyes. Chrom had stopped, thought about it, and Robin had laughed softly.

The quirk of Robin’s lip had been enough to tell him the answer.

It’s after dusk that Chrom lowers his training sword to the thundering of trumpets beyond the castle walls. Without hesitation, he rushes towards the throne room just in time to see Emmeryn settle tiredly into her seat.

The hall is empty save for the royal guard and a few servants scuttling in and out of hidden doors. He sprints towards the front of the throne, uncaring of how disheveled he looks from training. Emmeryn brightens at his presence.

“Emm! You’re finally back!”

“I am indeed.” She welcomes Chrom’s hug with a soft wheeze. “Have you grown stronger while I was gone?”

Chrom releases her sheepishly. “I wish. What took you so long?”

“Deals soured towards the end of the first day.” She purses her lips, “I was, invited, to stay for a week to reconsider.”

He may be dense, but he isn’t stupid. “They kept you prisoner.”

“Essentially.”

“We’re going to do nothing about it, aren’t we? Just like last time.”

“Chrom,” Emmeryn chides. “We discussed this. This is not the time for rash decisions. Our troops are no match for Plegia’s mages. You know how powerful they’ve grown over the last decade.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“I witnessed it for myself. One of them evaporated half a river with one spell.”

“That’s not possible… is it?”

“It’s not.” She plays with her hands, as if weighing an idea in her head. “There’s not enough mana in all of Ylisstol for a spell of this calibre. Though, I wonder.

“To tell the truth, I suspect that something of importance has happened in Plegia. One night spent at the palace, there was a commotion somewhere within the capital. The following day they were practically begging for the Emblem. A fifth of the kingdom’s land in exchange for the shield.”

“And you declined?”

“Of course.” She clicks her tongue in admonishment. “The more they want it, the less incentive I have to give it to them. There was an attempt to steal the Emblem, too.” She shuts her eyes for a long moment and shifts on the throne. “Tensions between us and them are high. There could be a war anytime soon.”

Chrom freezes at the mention of a war. He’d been preparing for this day all his life, but for his sister to bring it up now…

“One more thing.” Emmeryn taps the armrest thoughtfully. “There’s been reports of messengers disappearing down the borders to the west. I’d like you to take a look of the situation down there.”

“Why not send a team down?”

“That’s the thing. Those who vanished were all headed for Plegia. I fear for a mass desertion, if not soft declaration of war.”

“I’ll be on it.”

“And Chrom?”

He blinks in surprise. “Yes?”

“You seem happier.”

Chrom freezes. He can feel his ear tips burn as he searches for an excuse. When none comes out, Emmeryn gives him a knowing smile.

“You’re an adult now. It’s not as if you have to report your every move.”

He stutters. “It’s not that.”

“I trust that you’ll show me when the time comes.”

“Emm!”

She waves him away. Striding away from a lack of anything to say, he leaves the hall with a huff and makes his way to the living quarters.

“Your sister returned.” Robin drawls boredly, as Chrom slips back into his room. 

Chrom chuckles dryly, slumping into the closest chair he can reach. “That obvious?”

“What, her smell on you?”

He sits up straighter. “What smell?”

“You reek of a relative.”

Robin looks up from his book. By instinct, Chrom seizes up in defense, a thought reeling through his mind.

“Don’t you even try—“

“I’m not—“

“—eating her.”

“—going to.”

Chrom relaxes in his seat.

Robin licks his lips suggestively. “Then again, I only go for the finest.”

“...You mean me.”

He grins. “Why take a morsel when you can have the steak?”

“...”

Exhaling in defeat, Chrom leans back against the chair.

“I have to go out for a while.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. I’ll be gone for a week or two. I suppose it’ll be my last time out of Ylisstol for a while.”

“Plegia.” Robin flicks his tail in interest.

“Plegia,” Chrom agrees. “I’d take you with me, if not,” he gestures vaguely at him, “that.”

He blinks. “I’ll go.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Chrom frowns. “How?”

Robin closes his eyes. “Prepare a carriage before sunrise. If you can get me out of the castle gates, I’ll handle the rest.”

Chrom opens his mouth to ask, but Robin’s already curling up and burying his head between his wings. He places a lingering gaze on the bundle of feathers and calls a servant on his way out of his room. 

He awakes to a gentle call of his name when the sky is still pitch black. Groggily, he throws Robin his thick coat and cowl, and leads him down a servant’s passageway to the stables. Upon arrival, he ushers Robin up the carriage and kicks at the stirrups, urging the horses into the city and clattering speedily down the empty streets until Robin tells him to steer towards the apothecary.

Robin stares pointedly at him. Chrom fishes around in his breeches and hands him a heavy cloth bag. Sniffing at it derisively and weighing the coins in his hand, he disappears into the healer’s store. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. A muffled one sided argument later Robin emerges with a wheelchair in tow and throws the bag back at Chrom.

“They didn’t charge me.” He states, hefting the wheelchair onto the carriage with an unreadable expression. “I insisted on paying.”

“With my money.” He adds. As if they would dare charging you.

“Think of it as giving back your taxpayer dollars. Don’t worry. It’ll be nothing but a dream to them when they wake up.”

“ _If._ If they wake up.”

“How lowly you think of me,” Robin laughs, and disappears from the carriage window.

Dawn comes and goes in a blur of morning hues, then afternoon, as the roads tapers off into the lesser trod pathways fracturing away from the capital. The colors of summer are saturated in the absence of wind, the glaring blue of the sky a stark contrast between the singular blades of grass littering the barren dirt ground. 

At night, they set up camp, or rather, Chrom sets up camp and sends Robin to collect firewood. The clearing is quiet save for the steady trill of animal noises calling from distances unknown, the cool tingling on his skin a reminder of the wilderness he is in.

He ropes the horses to a tree and fetches what he needs from the carriage, setting up the tent and collecting water from a nearby river. Sparking a small fire with a handful of scrap wood, he lays out the salt and spice along his rations of bread.

The pile of kindling is crackling, the skies having darkened into an inky wasteland of stars among broken wisps of clouds. He traces meaningless patterns in the soft soil, feeding into the embers with scraps of leaves as it threatens to flicker out. So he waits.

Surely it didn’t take so long to collect firewood in the height of summer. The wood must be dry by now, brittle enough to snap off from dead trees, he thinks as he watches a crow roost on an evergreen. With nothing to do, he picks at his own sword, fiddling absently at the hilt until he hears a rustling between the trees, the crunching of branches the heralding of a familiar figure emerging from the forest.

“I’m back.”

Chrom balks.

Robin is a beast in the moonlight. His horns, golden tipped in the distant glow of the fire, had cast a shadow that shied away to the eerie gleam of his eyes. Wings trailing behind him and feathers prickling from his back, he sways his tail as he pads to the center of the clearing, scales glittering darkly as if wet. His talons leave shallow footprints in the dirt.

There hadn’t been enough space in the castle. Now, without closed walls and prying eyes, Robin moves with primal grace, the wind carding through his hair and running along the velvety fabric of his coat. When he unfurls a wing to test it against the night breeze, Chrom stops breathing for a heartbeat’s breadth.

It’s mesmerizing. He forgets to blink, and jolts consciously as Robin hands him a thick bundle of split logs. Crouching in front of the fire, he piles the logs into the flames, and gets subsequently surprised by the pleasant smell of alder rising from the smoke.

“Here.”

In his other hand, Robin hefts a massive fish bound in securely in rope that, at first glance with the pungent smell of fresh game, causes Chrom to flinch before realizing what it is.

“What’s wrong?”

He gives him a pained smile. “Thought it was bear.”

“Should I have hunted for bear instead?”

He shudders. “Don’t remind me. I couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth for days last I tried.”

Robin seems to be lifting it around with no problem, but the salmon is huge. At least as long as Chrom is tall. Come to think of it, didn’t fish of this size live in oceans?

He looks at it in awe. “You really didn’t need to. I was wondering if you’d gotten lost midway.”

“Fish needed a little convincing to get caught.” Is all Robin says on the matter as he thrusts the still-damp salmon into Chrom’s unsteady embrace. “Did it ever occur to you that I might have escaped?”

He grunts at the effort. “Not at all.”

“What would you have done if I had?”

“Nothing. You’re your own person, aren’t you? And besides,” he gives him a grin, “you came back.”

Robin stays silent. Chrom doesn’t comment further and instead takes in the mental image of Robin eyeing eagerly at the fire, then at the fish that Chrom is laying onto the chopping board on the carriage.

He washes off everything with the water he’s boiled, picks out a knife and starts removing the organs sluggishly. Eventually he gives up and calls Robin to descale the skin and instructs him on how to split bone from flesh, which he does with stunning finesse.

Slicing the rest into thick chunks, he roasts them over the open flame to Robin’s hungry stare. The scent of sizzling fat fills the air. It’s tender enough, so he’s foregone most of the spicing, and as the edges curl he lifts the skewer to directly feed them into Robin’s mouth.

Robin wolfs it down with astonishing speed. Chrom eats his fill first— he can’t exactly eat his own body weight in fish after all— and sighs happily at the burst of flavor lingering in memory. The rest of his time he spends cutting up and toasting the salmon over the open fire, tossing them to Robin whenever the flesh browns deliciously.

It takes them till midnight for Robin to finish up. As he does, his red tongue darts to lick the shiny sheen of oil off his lips, running over the sharp ridge of his canines and the slick surface of his fingers. The dying fragrance of cooked fat wafts away in heed of the smoke from the crackling fire.

Chrom takes to the tent. He calls for Robin to join him. Robin shakes his head, stretching lazily next to the hearth.

“I’ll keep watch.”

He closes the tent halfway; he doesn’t have to worry about wild animals after all, and prepares to sleep. The last thing he sees before dozing off is the steady flame of the bonfire and the shudder of a shadow cast on the canvas, bristling coolly in the flickering glow.

-

They set off late morning and stop at dusk, rinse and repeat. Robin catches a multitude of prey in the process, including a python two handspans thick that Chrom is too afraid to ask how Robin managed to kill in the first place. Sunrise, sunset. By the end of the sixth day he spots a pinprick of light at the end of the road, followed by a cobblestone paved road.

“Finally at civilization,” he breathes. “And we’re not even halfway there.”

Robin rumbles from inside the carriage. “How does it look like?”

“Just a small town. Not a lot going on considering the time of day, though it does serve as a crossroads to many other cities. I’ll go find us an inn.”

He steers them to one of the bigger establishments, tips the stable hand a generous amount and opens the carriage. Inside, Robin’s already sat himself into the wheelchair, wings and tail tucked neatly where the seat should have been, a blanket draped over his lap to disguise whatever is beneath his waist. He tugs at the woolen beret fitted onto his horns and smiles.

“Do I make a convincing patient?”

“My ass.” Chrom wheels him to the ground. “By Naga, you’re heavy.”

It’s late into night. The reception raises his head in interest as Chrom pushes Robin onto the fine wooden flooring, the creaking of the floorboards a dead giveaway that Chrom has to resist cringing at. Thankfully, they’re given their keys without question and waved towards the connected tavern dismissively.

The place is mostly empty. The lanterns burn lowly in the dim light, illuminating the chipped tables as Chrom exchanges a few coins for a half decent meal. Another two travelers sit at the far end of the room, a bard and his wife from the looks of it, talking idly to pass the time. Upon seeing Robin, they exchange whispers and the bard beckons Chrom over.

“What a rare sight in these hard times. What brings you here?”

“My friend wanted a breath of fresh air. Traveling musicians, I assume?”

The man nods. “We traded an evening of performance for a night at the inn. No other tavern would take us in.”

“What with the war, I suppose.”

He chuckles dryly. “Not the war, lordling. We’ve been on the brink of war for the last decade or so. It’s the harvest. The summer crop has been pitifully small this year. Towns like these may thrive on foreign coin, but smaller villages are struggling to get by. But enough of this talk. A round to drink?”

“Of course.” He compares his own tableful of food to the single tankard of ale in front of the couple. Awkwardly, he plops his pouch of coins onto the tabletop. “Order ahead. It’s on me.”

Robin plucks at his sleeves and coughs frailly. “I’ll pass.”

The bard’s wife speaks up, curiosity overcoming her bashfulness. “May I ask, your companion…?”

Robin smiles apologetically. “My muscles don’t regenerate as well as they should.” The woman’s gaze flits to his cap and he touches a loose strand of hair, almost ruefully. “It doesn’t spread, if you’re wondering.”

She looks away, embarrassed. Robin coughs softly again, choking on nothing, as if the act of speaking itself took a tremendous amount of effort. The couple turns to him in concern as Robin struggles to clear his throat.

“It’s nothing.”

Pale hair, oversized coat, the perpetual tiredness in his voice. If Chrom didn’t know better he’d be fooled too. He calls for the barkeep who provides unsparingly at the glittering pile of coins Chrom pushes towards him.

Later, as the night draws on, the innkeep himself joins in the conversation. He has a son, apparently— Donnel, Chrom sluggishly recalls. The alcohol really isn’t doing miracles for his brain right now. Robin shuts his eyes and leans wearily against Chrom’s arm, and only then does Chrom regain some semblance of consciousness. He excuses himself to let Robin back to their rooms.

Robin drops the act once out of earshot. “You’d drown in your own piss you if you'd drank any more.”

“I’m not.” He slurs, nearly tipping the wheelchair over. Robin exhales exasperatedly. “Okay, okay, but you- you’re heavy, and I don- I can’t-”

“Just carry me up.”

“That’s the point. If I…” He trails off, staring blankly into the distance. “Did you see that?”

“I did.”

“What was that?”

“A ghost.”

He stops in his tracks. “Gods, no, don’t tell me.”

Robin sighs.“It was a fellow patron. Or serving boy, I don’t know. Can we get on with the stairs?”

Chrom hums in agreement. Gently lifting Robin up, he maneuvers the staircase and to the rooms, careful not to reveal any inhuman part of his body. Robin’s scales are warm to touch. Alive. He fumbles with the keys and frowns.

“Why’re there th- four?”

“…Give me the keys.”

Robin’s the one unlocking both his and Chrom’s rooms in the end. Chrom collapses into bed the moment he’s able to without bothering with a change of clothes.

The room isn’t exactly very spacious, with a mirror facing the bed on a bare vanity. The furniture is minimum at best, the wardrobe nonexistent and the shelves (or shelf, singular) shoved into a corner. His mind is a puddle of slush as he falls asleep.

When he finally returns to the realm of consciousness, it’s to a chill over the threadbare blankets. He tries to ignore it, but the wind is biting despite the season. The window is half open. He doesn’t remember opening it. It’s still dark outside, white fog obscuring the stars of night.

He shuts the windows. A knock resounds from his door. He loosens his grasp on the window frame.

“Chrom?”

It’s Robin.

“—Are you inside?”

“Obviously. What happened?”

“I heard something from downstairs.”

“I didn’t hear a thing.”

“You were asleep. I wasn’t.”

“What sound?”

“It’s, how to describe it.” Robin pauses. “It’s hard to explain. I can still faintly hear it from the corridor.”

“Just come in.” He rubs the bleariness from his eyes, scanning the room. “You have the keys, don’t you? I can’t find them anywhere in my room.”

“It’s not very convenient for me go opening doors, you know that.”

“The time is what, three in the morning? Everyone’s asleep.”

Robin falls silent. Chrom grumbles inwardly and takes towards the door. The metal doorknob feels like ice.

An inexplicable feeling lodges itself in his chest. He looks at the clock, the hour, the minute.

Tick, tick, tick.

“The noise. It’s getting louder.”

“Robin,” he tries, very carefully, “how are your legs doing?”

“Not any worse than before. Why?”

He removes his hand from the doorknob. A prickling fear rises up his back, as if a deep, deep cold had wormed its way up his spine.

“Chrom?”

He takes a step backwards.

“What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t respond. The floorboards sink slightly under his weight and he steadies himself.

'Robin' knocks again, more insistently. “…Chrom?”

It’s the hottest day of summer, but his skin is tingling, numb. His palms are clammy as he searches his room for Falchion. Where is it?

“…”

He can’t find his sword. He can’t-

A dull thud hammers into the door. Not the fist of a hand. Not flesh and bone. He realizes that there’s no stars outside even with the dissipating fog, no moon. Something rams violently into the cheap wooden door and it cracks. The hinges screech.

It’s rapping at the door. The battering doesn’t stop. He can’t do anything. His back is pressed against the glass but he fails with the lock. A blackness seeps from beneath the door.

The windows glaze with soot. And it comes, towards him.

Towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> robin is hungry. in more ways than one. i am also hungry, please feed me,


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do I always update at 4 in the morning my sleeping habits are killing me
> 
> Sorry for the delay in updates, my grandmother passed away a few days ago and I was caught up in all that. (writing is a good coping mechanism?) But nevertheless, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

Chrom gasps. He jolts awake in bed.

His back is drenched in cold sweat. Sitting up, he loosens his death grip on the crumpled sheets, teasing the damp fabric from the gaps between his fingers. His head aches and his throat is as dry as parchment. A hangover, he muses. With shaking hands, he props himself up and out of bed.

The first thing he does is to find Falchion. His sword is there, right where he’d left it, leaning against the bedstead, the whitish metal gleaming in the morning light. The clock is ticking as it is. Must be a dream then.

He looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot. An uncomfortable feeling settles on his skin and he quickly pinpoints the source— the mirror is faced against the bed. The unblemished surface, silver and elegant, is oddly out of place among the worn walls and furniture. There isn’t a speck of dust on the metal frame.

A remnant of the dream last night floats into mind and he suppresses a shudder. Sliding Falchion into its sheath, he wraps his hand around the doorknob, swallows thickly, and pushes through.

The musk of dust wafts in the corridors. Sunlight is streaming in from his open door, a window of light in the narrow hallway. He tries at Robin’s door and finds it unlocked.

Inside, Robin is still sleeping. The keys to both their rooms are placed neatly on an empty desk. Robin’s tail twitches as Chrom enters and he rolls over lazily, mumbling under his breath. Uncovering his face from beneath a wing, he exchanges absent pleasantries with Chrom while he gets dressed. When he yawns, his canines glint in the sun.

Chrom wheels him towards the tavern. The distinct smell of bacon fills the space, as well as the fresh scent of butter and eggs. Robin wheezes convincingly as they approach.

The tavern is near empty. The innkeep is lounging languidly at a table. A boy sits next to him, aged no more than fifteen, a pair of crutches resting against the back of his chair. He looks up in alarm when he sees Chrom, gaze drifting to the sword at his hip. The innkeep whispers angrily at him.

Chrom chuckles. “This is Donnel, I presume?”

“Forgive his manners. Mistook you for a brigand, the boy. He’s still new to all of this.”

“Apologies, sir.” Donnel echoes, quietly.

“If there’s anything to apologize for, it’s for my carelessness.” Chrom taps the table in thanks as the innkeep rises to serve them their breakfast. “It’s a fine quality to be wary.”

“Aye.” He places two platters in front of Robin and Chrom. “He’s a good lad, if I say so myself. If any of ye are in need of a scribe, my boy’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

“Your son.” Robin prompts. “His crutches?”

The innkeep drops off abruptly. “Sir…”

“You mistake me. He seems well. Very well, in fact, for one with broken legs. I would consider myself a proper judge on this.”

Robin’s gaze is piercing, sharp. Not a hint of fragility in those blood-red eyes, despite his sickly demeanor. A shiver runs down the innkeep’s spine.

“Something’s happened. Tell me. “

“I’d rather… If you insist.” He clasps his hands nervously, resting them on the table. “A year ago, a man came by in the dead of night, begging for a night’s stay. The other inns had all refused him. At the time, there’d been a particularly nasty strife between Ylisse and Plegia, and Naga knows where the deserters went; they sure weren’t going back to Plegia, that was.

“He had nothing of value on him. But he reminded me of myself before I met my wife, so I lent him a room and a place to bathe. Before he went to sleep, he asked if I had a child. The next day, he was gone. But Donnel? My wife found him leaning against his bed, on both of his legs. We were ecstatic. The boy’d broke his spine a while back, you see, and they’d told us that there was no cure.

“He still can’t walk properly yet, but thank Naga he’s getting better every day.”

“Lucky for him.” Robin murmurs.

The innkeep rushes to supply details. “If I could, I’d find the mysterious healer for you, but…”

“Go on.”

“He left without so much as a name. Didn’t leave anything behind, no stories, no medicine, nothing.” The innkeep sighs. “If only I’d asked.”

“It’s alright.” Robin smiles contemplatively. “I know where to find him.”

The innkeep furrows his brows in confusion. “You do?”

“Naturally.” He tears the last strip of bacon from his fork and lays down his silverware. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he turns to Chrom. “I’m finished. Take me for a walk?”

Dumbfounded, Chrom nods. He’d only planned to stay the night. The wheelchair thumps dully against the dirt as he exits the tavern, groaning ominously at Robin’s weight. As if reading Chrom’s thoughts, he answers.

“We wouldn’t have been able to leave today. The road’s been blocked by a landslide.” He points in a direction. “Before you ask, I heard it collapse an hour ago, from the inn. I’d like to have a look.”

They pass through the town, walking leisurely along the river as children ran across the bridges. A few carriages trot by. A traveler’s crossroads, indeed.

Chrom steers them down the main road. A thought strikes him as he does. “If the road’s blocked, then where did the couple from yesterday go?”

“Left early morning, I presume.” Robin stretches his hand in the sun. “Did you have any strange dreams last night?”

Chrom stops. Robin waits in silence, expression hidden from view.

“How did you know?”

“Just asking.” He states blandly. “We’re there.”

The nearby hill has completely melted onto the road. Debris litters the paved ground, rocks and stones scattered from the mound of dirt and withered trees. Mud water leaks from the soft soil. On closer inspection, it doesn’t seem so much as water as an unknown, viscous liquid. If Chrom were to listen, he could almost make out a soft humming from the clear ooze.

It hadn’t rained yesterday, as Chrom recalls. He kneels down, sniffing suspiciously at the mud.

Robin’s voice pulls him back. “Don’t touch it.”

“It’s poisonous?”

“To you, it is.” He ditches the wheelchair and scoops up a gratuitous amount. The ooze doesn’t dribble away but forms into an amorphous blob in Robin’s grasp. “As I thought. Here, I’ve contained it. Don’t stick your finger in.”

Hesitant, Chrom brushes his thumb against the watery substance. Immediately, a wave of icy coldness surges from his fingertips, fiery and numb. He draws his hand back instinctively. “This is… what is this?”

“Condensed mana. Someone must have released a large amount of it from the west.”

“Doesn’t explain why it’s so,” he rubs his fingertips sorely, “cold.”

“Some call it _yinqi_. In short, mana used for dark magic, meaning that it siphons the life force out of those in contact. Especially you, child of Naga.” He gathers a handful of the ooze and with a swift movement, plops it into his mouth.

“You…”

“You forget what I am.” He licks his fingers. “I am an animal. A beast. Creatures like me, monsters of legend, wyrms, ghouls, strigas and all that filth— we’re made of this stuff. We devour mana to survive.”

The sunlight turns harsh. Among the still fields, a soft glow envelopes him, scattering on the snow-white hair falling on his shoulders.

“By virtue of nature, we are drawn to creatures of the light, like a moth to a flame. Whether that flame burns us, or do we bask in its warmth, is a matter of our own strength. You, Chrom, are a bonfire in the deepest of nights. Remember that.”

He brushes himself off, hugging his coat closer to himself.

“We’re done here. Let’s go.”

-

Evening blends into night and Robin drowses lazily as Chrom hangs around in the tavern, frisking for information out of loose lips. The atmosphere, cozy, worked efficiently and before long Robin had nodded off, hand still threaded into the scarf he’d tightly wound around himself. He mumbles incoherently as Chrom ruffles his hair fondly. They return to the inn.

Robin doesn’t hand Chrom his keys. He ushers him into his own room and locks the door, throwing the keys casually onto the vanity.

“Sleep. I’ll wake you at midnight.”

Chrom obeys without complaint. He’s curious, of course, but would Robin answer if he’d asked? No. He climbs into the hard mattress and lays there unblinkingly, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him. His chest feels nauseatingly tight for some reason.

Robin quietly waits, unbothered by Chrom’s wakefulness, occasionally shifting in position in the utter darkness. Time passes. A soft, scratching sound surfaces from the muted silence. A sound that only Robin hears. Standing, he pushes the door open, gesturing to follow.

The corridor is void of life. The windows are shut tight, the walls smelling of dust. No sign of activity comes from the other rooms, though the night is young as it is. They make their way to the reception and Robin suddenly motions to the wheelchair by the stairs.

A flickering, orange light dashes against the walls. The candle flame wavers uncertainly as the boy emerges from a hallway, hobbling on a single crutch. In his other hand holds a worn lantern. He flinches as they make eye contact.

Robin nudges Chrom to wheel him closer.

“Boy, what brings you here?”

Donnel clutches at his crutch tightly, intimidated. If he could, Chrom would have said a word of reassurance, though in the presence of Robin’s warning glare he stays silent.

“I- I heard something.”

“From where?”

“In the direction of- of the kitchens?”

“Bring us there.”

“But sir-”

“What if a thief had broken in? What warrants that you, a cripple, won’t have your arteries slashed the second you walk in?” Completely disregarding Donnel’s discomfort, he waves uninterestedly at Chrom. “He will protect us. Lead the way.”

Donnel opens his mouth in protest and shuts it. Like a goldfish, Robin thinks and does not say out loud. Their shadows froth unsteadily behind them in the lantern’s glow.

The way to the kitchen is long and winding. Not a shred of noise save their unerring footsteps echoes in the damp hallway. The ceiling is low, the walls suffocatingly narrow, cold to touch and encased in condensed fog. The air itself seems to thicken as they approach.

The scratching becomes evident as the corridor opens into a small space in front of the kitchen. Like a needle, skittering incessantly against the floorboards. The flame within the lantern gutters dangerously, to the rhythm of a low groan behind closed, iron doors. A web of rust sprawls over the metal.

Without a word, Donnel crouches to put down the lantern. The light diffuses weakly along the floor, dousing everything in a dim glow. Struggling to fish out the kitchen keys, he hands them to Chrom.

Robin stays Chrom with an idle hum. “You open them.”

“Sir,” Donnel says, enfeebled, “I’m not strong enough.”

“Why did you come here then? Unlock it.”

Donnel winces. Raising an arm reluctantly, he inserts the key into the keyhole. It twists with a quiet click. Chrom, sympathetic, steps forward to push against the heavy iron doors. Donnel’s grip on the key loosens. Robin leaps from his wheelchair.

His tail whirs in a shining arc. Chrom, stuttering backwards, gasps sharply— Donnel’s crutch clatters to the floor. The shriek of bone against ivory slices wetly in the stifling stillness. Blood splashes onto the walls like paint.

He sees specks of red splatter across Robin’s cheek, hot and tasting of copper. A deep cut runs down Donnel’s arm, freshly pooling with crimson, the whites of his ulna teeming with gore. His legs buck under his weight and he leans shakily against the wall, face pale from blood loss.

“You-!”

“Dull thing.” Robin sneers. “Blinded by your own hunger.”

All concern for the boy gets swallowed into Chrom’s gut as Donnel flashes his teeth maliciously, pulling a knife from his back. As if the wound didn’t hurt at all. Robin’s eyes gleam with anticipation. Donnel- if he could still be called that- lowers himself to the ground, and lunges.

He launches at Robin at inhuman speed. His twisted legs, gnarled from years of disuse, are of no concern as he aims straight for Robin’s heart. Robin dodges and with a nimble step back, lightly slaps his tail across Donnel’s back. A chunk of flesh shears off and drops to the ground.

No matter. He gets up immediately, arm wrenched back at a painful angle and swings at him again, the epitome of a broken puppet. In the eerie light his blood looks more black than red. Robin’s movements are unhurried, like a cat toying with its prey, as he brushes the blade past, once, twice, and strikes for the kill.

He spins, catching the knife between two fingers, and shatters the blade into splinters. Donnel twists away and slashes at him with the remaining stub, jaw set with crooked determination, but not enough to deter the sharp blow from Robin’s wing that drew jagged studs across his face. His features are blurred from impact. And yet he struggles.

Briskly, Robin knocks him to the floor, bends down, and tears the arm holding the knife clean from his shoulder without so much as a scream. He pins him down with a talon, claws digging into bruised skin. From where he had wounded him, a writhing blackness seeps out and trickles down by gravity’s lull.

“I said, I knew where the healer had went.” He drives his talons deeper into Donnel’s chest. “Didn’t believe me, did you? Thought you could take the boy’s body and run?”

Something cracks with an ear-splitting crunch.

“Don’t even think about touching him. He’s mine.”

Donnel splutters, lungs heaving for air. Robin crushes his ribs tighter, until the last wisp of breath flutters from his splintered lip and his limp body shudders. A vague mass wells out from his gaping mouth, dense and bubbling. Robin plunges a hand into the liquid and, inexpressively, drags out a wriggling blob that he flings offhandedly aside. It dies upon impact and melts into a puddle.

Chrom stands, shocked into numbness. Robin flicks the lumpy matter from his hand, scowling. The floor is littered with bits of meat and bone. He bends down, picks up the lantern and raises his head.

“Are you afraid?”

Seeing no reply, he fully turns the key in the keyhole and kicks it open. The hinges groan as the doors tease apart.

“After you.”

That draws Chrom out of his reverie. His mouth tastes of his own spit. He’s killed before. It’s not the blood that’s getting to him. To think that, that thing, had stayed under the same roof as him.

With an unsteady breath, he enters the stone-cold kitchen. Robin closes the doors behind him.

He’s instantly greeted with the stench of death. The kitchen is clean, the shelves tidy. Instinctively, he gravitates towards the pantry. He hears Robin hum in amusement. The door swings inwards.

He inhales sharply.

“This…”

Corpses, mounds of them, stacked neatly in carts. Among them are the bard and his wife Chrom had met the night before, glassy-eyed and rigid. How many had passed through this place, and never left alive?

His internal monologue is disrupted by the clinking of metal against metal. A man is outside, unlocking the door to the kitchen. Voices rumble. There’s company.

He hides himself behind one of the carts. To his surprise, he’s completely calm. His breathing is even, and he realizes why, as the reassuring sound of Robin’s heartbeat fills his mind. His back is pressed against Robin’s chest.

The men are talking in a language he doesn’t recognize. Robin murmurs that he’ll translate. Later.

“They’re dead.”

Chrom swallows. “All of them?”

Robin confirms. “Every single one.”

The innkeep slips into sight.

“He’s dead, too. Died this afternoon while we were gone.”

Robin takes him gently by the wrist and guides him to the hilt by his hip. His hands, slender and soft, ghost over his own.

“Through the heart.” Robin whispers in his ear. “With Falchion.”

He doesn’t need any other sign. The events after blur in his memory. He remembers unsheathing his sword, bright and silver and thrumming with the divine. With less clarity, he recalls slicing through what felt to him like wet mud, heavy and clotted. The last man crumples to his feet, unconscious.

The room, with the addition of ten, or twenty more corpses, stinks of rot. Robin makes his way to the exit, careful not to soil his talons in the pools of blood.

The ordeal had been over as quickly as it had started. Chrom would have thought it all a dream if not for the very real, very red blood caked under his nails and sword. He has questions. Too many, in fact, that he doesn’t know where to start.

In his periphery, he thinks he sees a dead man blink at him.

“They’re body traffickers.” Robin tells him. “As to what they’re using the bodies for,” he nods towards Donnel’s body as they make their way out of the bloodbath, “who knows.”

They stop at the baths before returning. Exhausted, Chrom rinses himself off while Robin soaks in the hot water, staring at him intently. Chrom doesn’t have the energy to chastise him for it. He dresses tiredly and fetches the keys to his room.

“The door serves as the boundary between the living and the dead.” Robin suddenly says, unprompted, as he comes to a halt in the corridor. “If you’d opened the door, you would have ended up with them.”

“…”

  
“An open door is an open invitation.” He smiles cryptically. “Goodnight, Chrom.”

“Goodnight.”

He can still smell the blood on his hands.

-

Chrom wakes up again in the middle of the night. It’s not to the wind, nor to a chilling knock on his door. He stares at himself in the mirror first thing as he sits up. The detail he can see from his vantage is excruciatingly clear.

The next thing he checks is the clock. It’s ticking, but the time stays at three in the morning.

He’s dreaming.

Faintly, he can pick up a noise from downstairs. A skittering of sharp ends on wood. Just like the scratching he’d heard from the kitchen. This time, however, it’s accompanied by a deep, crackling sound. He nears the door and at the last moment, hesitates.

Without him in contact, the door clicks, and swings open.

His entire body freezes. The hairs on the back of his neck are prickling with cold sweat. He backs away, an internal struggle whether to even touch the door and pull it close. Time isn’t ticking for him, nor anyone in this in-between world. He has plenty of time to decide.

He’d rather wake up in the real world, of course, but it doesn’t seem likely until he’s done anything of substance. Gingerly, he walks out in the corridor. His stomach does an impossible flip.

Out from the rooms that aren’t his or Robin’s, there are scratch marks leading away from the door to the stairs. The signs of a struggle are woven into the scuffs on the walls, the faded splotches in the wood. If he looked, very closely, he would have seen broken bits of human stuffed into the gaps between walls.

Unarmed, he treads down the stairs, listening to them creak under his weight.

Moonlight— without a moon— streams into the hallway. His skin seems so pale in it, near bluish and white. There is one place he has to go, where the light doesn’t reach. The scritching gets louder with every step. At last, he reaches the kitchen.

He runs his fingers over the rust, the iron, feeling for the entrance in his blindness. His heart races in his chest. Fumbling, he grasps the handle, and holding his breath, pushes through.

The kitchen is longer than what he remembers. He relies on his sense of touch to progress forward. As he tentatively lands his fingers on a smooth surface, a shiver rocks through his spine. It moves. His eyes focus with effort.

It’s a bug. A centipede-like monster, enlarged several hundred times, spasming under him. That’s where the scritching came from. On further inspection, it’s been severed into half. He’s been touching what’s left of this dying creature.

The crackling, the sickening, wet crunching resounds in the darkness. He’s suddenly hyperaware of his own breathing. There is a living creature at the end of this hallway. And it’s been feeding off the bugs here for a while now.

He wades through the bug corpses, a dullness restricting his throat. The sound grows still. He feels an ominous presence in front of him, writhing as if a giant serpent, warping the space around it in its powerful aura. He thinks it may have teeth, fangs, in the snapping noise that it makes as it directs his attention at him.

It turns. A part of it, its horns perhaps, tears into the walls besides it. Chrom treads away, mind a complete blank. In the deep, deep darkness, he sees six crimson eyes nictitate, and blink open. He reaches for his sword and grasps nothing.

In his slow amble backwards, he walks, and walks, and bumps into someone. He can’t see without light. Warmth radiates from his back.

“Chrom.”

An arm encircles his waist, the other clasping into his palm. A hot breath trails over the shell of his ear and he can feel fangs grazing the nape of his neck, mouthing along the crook of his shoulder.

He can’t move. A muted pain pierces him below the shoulder blades, followed by the rousing sensation of fingers feathering touches on his wound, almost lovingly. The hand clutching his waist lifts to cover his eyes.

“Wake up.”

Chrom snaps awake to the shattering of his mirror.

It’s been cracked into unsalvageable fragments. He nearly pisses himself in shock. Then upon remembering his dream, he falls back into bed, willing himself into unconsciousness as his cheeks burn uncontrollably.

Until Robin calls for him to leave, he throws on his clothes unhurriedly and makes his way downstairs. On their short trip to their carriage, he talks blearily about the future of the inn, failing to notice Robin’s heated gaze on his back as he mounts the horses.

They set off from the town.

It’s late morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to anyone who loves Donnel: I am so sorry. please don't kill me. i also love him
> 
> There... was an attempt... at writing horror... unproofread I go to bed Now good night everyone


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god i am so sorry for the lack of updates. oh god. i said, i had a holiday, and then consequently spent it doing nothing.
> 
> ****This chapter is written in past tense and future chapters will also probs be in past tense but because it's 3:30 in the morning I'm not going to rewrite the previous chapters yet so thank you in advance for bearing with me! 
> 
> (it's in past tense because i've been rereading a song of ice and fire and i write in the style of whatever i read last)

The fire crackled in the hearth.

“You could do without eating so much in a day,” Chrom motioned without bite. “There’s only so much gold on me.”

“Do you have enough?” Robin raised his head for a brief moment. Without waiting for him to answer, he lowered his gaze and swallowed half a tankard of ale. “Another mug of mead.”

Chrom waved for the serving girl and she scuttled to the kitchens, bringing a chipped tankard and placing it next to its three empty brethren on the table. Robin took the tankard, brought it to his lips, and the froth sloshed gracefully down his throat.

“Careful with the alcohol.”

“I don’t get drunk.” He teethed out the last word in exaggerated spite, clapping the mug onto the table, hard. “We’re leaving.”

“The night’s still early.”

“I don’t like it when people stare at you.” He said simply, waving for Chrom to wheel him away. As he passed the stairs he turned towards at a dark corner and waited for the serving girl to flinch. She scurried away, clutching the edges of her shirt, but not before smiling at Chrom and brushing away a strand of her hair.

The ale was good, Robin thought to himself, and said no more on the matter as Chrom took him to their inn and brought them to their rooms. Their rooms, separated thinly, stood next to each other. Robin shut himself in in earnest. Chrom hesitated, fingertips cold, and knocked on the door before entering.

Nothing felt off in the room. He sighed in relief, chastising himself internally for the superstition. Still, he paced awhile before sleeping, and when he woke up to the soft tinkering of snow on glass he froze and looked at the night sky.

It wasn’t snow. White wisps floated like rain beyond the windows, drifting along in chase of the breeze. He swore he saw the blackness of a pupil blink at him, attached to one of the tendrils that left a lingering trail of frost on the glass.

He stood up gingerly, took his sword, and as quietly as he could made his way in front of Robin’s door.

Robin answered at the second knock. Hair mussed from sleep, he let Chrom in without explanation and closed the door behind him.

He drew what little was left of the curtains shut, natural as ever, and flicked his tail towards the bed. “Sleep.”

It was a single bed, shoddy, but big enough to fit one and a half. Two if they tried. The sheets were stained from age and wear, roughspun. Robin did not register his complaint. Chrom sat on the mattress and as he was reasoning with himself the moral implications of taking Robin’s bed, caught the bundle of blankets thrown towards him.

The room was dark except for a strip of moonlight painting the walls through the gap in the tattered curtains. He laid unsteadily in bed, drew the blankets over himself, and felt Robin squirrel onto the bed behind him. Immediately, he tensed, but could say no more.

“Sleep.” Robin repeated, the heat of his wings pressed against Chrom’s back. His feathers spilled over Chrom’s waist and neck, but Chrom stayed still and said nothing. “Don’t look. It’ll be gone by morning.”

He flushed. This close, Robin smelt of ashes and rain, and while he barely had the room to squirm in bed he could do nothing but lay helplessly as the smooth texture of his scales glided over his skin, separated by nothing but a thin layer of fabric. His breathing quickened. Was it fear, or something else, he would never know.

Unwittingly, he drifted off, and dreamt of a deep coldness that soaked him to the bone.

Someone tugged on his arm. He rolled over, groaning. A damp, bony thing left his sleepy embrace. When he threw off the covers and saw Robin grimacing at a wet spot on his wing he instinctively wiped at the corner of his mouth.

The sun dashed itself harshly on Robin’s hair, lighting up half of his face as it did the many days before. They had been traveling for over a week now, nearing two. Robin dried his feathers on the soiled sheets.

“Did my wings taste good?”

“…” They did.

Chrom crawled out of bed, spitting a wet plume out of his mouth.

He got dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, put his sword by his belt, and left some coin on the register before leaving the inn.

The sky was clear outside. The horses bickered in front of him and he flicked his whip without strength, watching the clouds disperse in the wind as the carriage shivered over a bump in the road.

“What was it that we saw last night?” He grasped at a butterfly that had flitted its way in front of him and missed.

“Nothing too dangerous,” came Robin’s muffled reply, “as long as you don’t touch them or make eye contact.” After some deliberation, he added. “They taste terrible.”

“It didn’t seem as if the innkeep saw it.”

“Most people can’t. But most people don’t carry the blood of the dragons, either.”

He sat on the coachman’s seat, arse sore from the hard wooden bench. A bead of sweat trickled down from his neck. The sun was high, and baked the dirt into hard, crusted pavement. The carriage rocked as it cluttered its way back to Ylisstol.

“Hey.” Chrom said suddenly. “Do you think we’re blood related?”

“That’s nonsense. You were descended from a divine dragon.”

“It’s not impossible. All dragons were made from Naga’s blood, at least that’s what the maesters teach. We might be distant relatives, don’t you think?”

“Not all.” Robin sprawled between the seats, head knocked against the carriage walls. “In the beginning, there were two. Naga, and…” He tapped his finger against the window frame in annoyance. “His name. What was it again?”

“Grima,” Chrom supplied helpfully. “The fell dragon. The first exalt slayed Him, the creatures of darkness lost their strength and peace returned to the three kingdoms of olde, et cetera, et cetera.”

“No. Grima… That’s not how it went.” He frowned. “…I can’t remember anything. Nothing at all.”

He stared into the sky. At a loss of words, Chrom spurred the horses forward, and took towards Ylisstol.

-

There was a commotion outside the castle gates. Chrom took the lesser known way, hiding Robin behind closed curtains, and snuck him up to his room. Afterwards he shook off his peasant’s tunic for a finer shirt and doublet and hastily went ahead to the throne room. To his surprise he saw his sisters standing at the center. Emmeryn looked troubled.

“All dead. Not even an hour after we locked them up. When I went and checked their pulses, I’d found that they’d been dead for days.” Lissa noticed him and stopped abruptly. “Chrom!”

“What happened?” His story would have to wait. “I saw the prison carts at the castle gates. Brigands, again?”

Lissa shook her head. “Spies for Plegia. We found them smuggling weapons by the Feroxian border. None of them are Plegian by ethnicity, but they spoke only fluent Plegian.”

His sister had been on an expedition with the Shepherds in the months past. He would have led them personally, of course, if Emmeryn hadn’t requested him to stay and satisfy his princely duties. _A prince does not romp around in the countryside all year round, Chrom._

Months of leading an army did no wonders on Lissa. She had a faint scar on her left cheek, still pink and leading nastily down her neck. The pads of her fingers were roughened from holding a staff. Not that it would matter. She would be wed by the council to another lord’s house at a ripe age, though Chrom knew she would have preferred a life of soldiery instead.

“Chrom. Are you listening?”

“Sorry, I wasn’t.” He replied apologetically. His sister seemed so far away when she spoke like this. “You brought the bodies back for examination, then?”

“As I was saying.” Lissa pursed her lips. “I’m going to take a better look with the equipment at the castle, so if you want in before I dissect them, now’s the time.” She looked at Emmeryn. “Emm? Are you coming? It might be just a little too gory to your liking, though.”

Emmeryn nodded tiredly. “I trust your expertise.”

“Bro, let’s go.” She twirled her staff in her hand and touched the wound on her face, grinning. “You won’t believe some of the stuff I saw while I was gone. You know, the river in the west…”

He pushed down the urge to ruffle her hair like he always did and followed her down to the healers’ wing. It smelled of ethanol and a mixture of herbs that he didn’t like much or recognize. As he approached, the overpowering stench of decay stung his nostrils, as well as the smell of cinnabar and basil to preserve the corpses.

An apprentice came and fetched the keys to where the bodies were kept. Hesitating between Lissa and Chrom, he settled with handing them to Chrom. Chrom saw Lissa’s expression sour and laughed, holding out the keys to her.

“You’ll be the master of this place when you gain a few more inches.”

She grumbled. “Just open the door.”

The metal key felt unnaturally cool in his hand. He slotted it into the keyhole, drew the bolts aside, and for a heartbeat thought himself outside the kitchen back at the inn, the iron door creaking open with the same, dying rasp.

It wasn’t the same though. They had chose a windowless cellar to remove the bodies from the heat. Despite the effort, the corpses were half rotten. The wounds they had were minor, and they laid stiffly as if their soul had been sucked out while they had been doing the most mundane of things.

A bowl of incense burned to keep the flies out. The smoke snaked up from the crushed herbs and dispersed. Chrom beckoned for Lissa, gesturing for a candle. All he felt was a handful of cold wind, and the only source of light went out in a deafening slam of the door.

His stomach did a nauseating flip. “Lissa,” he called carefully, “Are you there?”

The only thing he saw was the a red dot in the distance, from a hole where the incense burned in its container. It was mesmerizing. His attention was drawn to it, like a moth to a flame, but his body backed itself against the door and found it sealed. The surface was damp with a chilly substance that drew warmth from him.

His vision adjusted to see the slick sheen of mana trail off from the hinges, along the floor, then dribbling cooly from the tables, where the corpses laid. It was exceptionally cold, a cold that inspired a deep, instinctual fear in him. He walked forward, towards the single, red flame that licked quietly inside its holder.

He exhaled, not remembering when he had started holding his breath at all, and without warning a black shadow passed the flame.

Someone had walked past it. He could not see who, in the pitch darkness. It had happened so fast that he had thought it was his imagination, and the quietness that followed seemed to confirm this. Still, a prickling sensation numbed his spine and made his head throb.

Then he felt the wind move on his back. He spun in a pirouette, scabbard and blade making a shrill sound in the silence. His sword arced in a perfect circle, displacing air in an empty whoosh. He didn’t stop and struck again, shuffling a half-step forward, and this time his wrist nearly faltered as it squelched through hard muscle.

He heard something plop onto the floor wetly. There, if there were enough light, he might have seen some dark entrails slither lifelessly from his opponent. He blindly swung upwards and caught what he thought should be the ribs. Robin’s phantom voice crooned lowly in his memory. _Through the heart._

It died soundlessly. He pulled the tip of his sword from its chest and let it thud onto its own guts. His boots sloshed in what might have been blood, or mana, or both. He listened for a sign, a grunt of pain, a ragged breath, but a rigid hand grabbed at his left arm and he sliced it clean off at the wrist. _Right. Dead people don’t breathe._

He squeezed his eyes shut. His hearing sharpened, he rammed the hilt into the body on his right, speared the one on his left, twisted, and yanked it out in time to avoid a drunken blow to his head. It instead hit his shoulder and he was up again, nailing the corpse through the left lung and kicking it aside.

More came. He sensed them by their movements, running his sword into their skulls, their bellies, searching out their hearts methodically. A body hooked him in the jaw and he responded by drawing a slit from its stomach to chest, but there hadn’t been enough reach. It grabbed him by the arm and threw him onto the floor, another rose from the tables and kicked him below the ribs. Pain flared through his sides. He couldn’t afford to flinch. It took a fountain pen from the desks and aimed. He rolled. It stabbed into the floor beside him.

His neck and back was drenched in slimy, icy sludge. He gripped his sword. The corpse cornered him, a hand grabbing his jaw, the other roughly searching for his eye socket. Before it could dig its finger in he wrenched his sword and it bit square into its neck, lopping the ugly thing off. The body slackened for a blessed second, he got to his feet, and the corpse moved again. This time he sheared its hand off, along with sliding his blade between its ribs. He sensed a fist behind him. Falchion struck it with ease and teased the dead organ out from its chest.

It was over as swiftly as it had started. Or at least he hoped it was, for the sludge that had doused his back was starting to burn in way that he couldn’t differentiate between whether it was numbingly frigid or searingly hot. He slid from the wall to the floor, shriveling into himself, arms hugging his side to keep in the heat.

Falchion was warm, but could not ward off the mana that crawled over him as if it were alive. It rolled from his back to his neck, condensing onto his skin in a thin layer. His mouth tasted like lead. He thought he might have swallowed some.

He tried to get to his feet, but a terrible fatigue overcame him and he could do no further than shrink farther into himself. If he died here… Robin. No, he has to get up. At least, tell Emm, to spare him…

The lock clicked. Sunlight blearily diffused onto his shivering body, and onto the cadavers strewn on the floor. Lissa bursted into the room, blabbering in concern, her staff thrumming with magic. He didn’t pay attention to what she was saying.

“Draw up a bath for me.” He found himself waving at a servant. “I’m freezing.”

“Brother!”

“It’s fine.” He stared blankly into the space behind Lissa. “I’ll explain after I rest.”

She opened her mouth to protest, and closed it. His injuries were minor, anyways. The mana had sapped away his warmth and his strength along with it. In a dreamlike haze, he wandered his way to the private baths and soaked blearily in it, almost nodding off as he scrubbed himself off. Wiping his hair off, he found his own room by autopilot and collapsed onto his bed.

Robin raised his head. “Where’d you been?”

It took him a long time to process those words. “My sister.”

“You smell disgusting.”

He didn’t have the strength to sniff at himself. “Don’t eat her,” he said blearily. “I’m going to sleep.”

He slid under the covers. With his last remaining shred of consciousness, he saw Robin get up and pad to his bed.

“Where were you, just now?”

“The morgue. ’S nothing important.” He yawned. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Get up.”

“I said, it’s nothing important.”

“Sit up.” When Chrom showed no sign of compliance, he pulled away the covers and yanked him tosit irritatedly at the edge of the bed. “Open your mouth.”

Chrom huh’d in response. “Wh—!”

A hand threaded into his still-damp hair to steady his head, Robin had shoved his thumb into Chrom’s mouth and pressed down into his blunt human canine, hard, until a flavorful metallic tang filled his tongue and he unconsciously licked Robin’s thumb as it stopped bleeding.

“Swallow.”

He dutifully did as he was told. As he did, a scorching sensation burned down his throat, followed with a pleasant coolness that swirled in his abdomen.

“Do you feel anything?”

Chrom furrowed his brows. “Nothing. It—”

He doubled over. A sharp pang twisted in his stomach, stabbing in deeper, deeper, spreading like fire to his chest. He tried to speak but couldn’t in his agony. He fisted into his sheets, another hand clutching at his chest.

Above him, Robin clicked his tongue. He knelt so that he could look Chrom in the eye. Chrom looked at him pleadingly, clawing syllables out from his parched throat. Robin drew his tongue over his teeth.

Pinching close Chrom’s nose with two fingers, he leaned into him, near enough for his breath to ghost hotly over his skin, and closed the gap with his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nnnNNHnhangdn i'll proofread tmr morning goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/shtrigaei) or [tumblr!!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aebers)


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